The clock on the dressing table was saying ten-thirty. Downstairs the main course of their meal, which he had intended to sample as proof that she was up to catering for his wedding, was still sitting around on plates and dishes. Francesca groaned and sat up, drawing her knees up to her chin and pulling the quilt up to her neck.
‘And now you are about to tell me that this has all been a terrible mistake. Am I right?’ He ran one finger along her spine, sending little shivers racing through her, and she turned around and looked at him. God, he was so beautiful. Unbearably beautiful.
‘Of course it’s been a mistake, Angelo.’
‘Come back to bed.’
‘Don’t! How can you say that when…when…?’ She stood up, feeling very self-conscious, and padded out to the bathroom where he could hear the sound of a bath being run.
Angelo did nothing to stop her. He knew her well enough to know that she would take her time with her bath, putting off the moment of having to return to the bedroom. He settled down, hands folded behind his head, to wait.
When she came in forty minutes later she was in fighting mood. She switched the light on immediately and stood by the door, hair washed and decently attired in some jogging bottoms that showed off more than a tempting amount of stomach and a loose, cropped jumper with deep pockets on either side and a hood. Her hands were thrust into the pockets as she stood there, glaring.
‘I’ve had time to think, Angelo, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re despicable.’
‘Care to come a bit closer and tell me that?’
‘No. What I care to do is remind you that you’re in my house and that I want you to leave. And, if you’re interested, I won’t be doing the catering for your wedding so you’ll have to find someone else.’
Angelo didn’t budge. ‘Turn off the top light. It’s too bright in here.’
‘Angelo. Go!’ She strode into the room and snatched the quilt off the bed, revealing a highly tuned body in all its natural glory. If she had been hoping that he would lurch to cover himself with the nearest piece of fabric, she was mistaken. He remained where he was, looking at her with a lazy half smile, until she was forced to pick all his clothes up from the floor and throw them at him.
‘I’m not about to put them on,’ he commented, gathering them up in a pile and dumping them right back on the floor. ‘If you want me to get dressed, then you’re going to have to do it yourself. Which might very well be an interesting experience for the both of us.’
‘This isn’t a game,’ Francesca shouted furiously.
‘No. It is not. So why don’t you stop behaving like a fishwife and tell me what it is that’s bothering you? Has the quality of my lovemaking gone downhill? Hmm? Have I not satisfied you?’ He knew what levers to pull to enrage her further but he wasn’t going to rise to an argument. Not when he felt so pleasurably satisfied.
She had come to him, had been unable to resist. For a man who had once been victim to a loss of control when it came to her, he had felt superbly back in control, calling the shots.
‘How could you come here…and make a pass at me when you’re engaged to be married? And, to add insult to injury, I am the person who is supposed to be catering the wedding meal!’
This time Angelo sat up.
‘And you are…what? Acting the outraged maiden doesn’t impress me, Francesca. Have you conveniently forgotten that you have a boyfriend tucked away in the background?’
‘Jack…Jack…’
‘…wouldn’t mind?’ he inserted sarcastically. ‘Isn’t jealous? Believes in a strict policy of sharing, even when it comes to his women?’
Francesca sagged and walked across to the window, where she perched on the ledge and looked at him. It was very obvious where he was heading with his little argument. The ‘pot calling the kettle black’ argument. She had let herself go along with the fiction that she and Jack were involved because she wanted protection from herself. Now, to admit the truth would also be to explain the lie.
‘You don’t understand. And, anyway, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you and your seedy morals.’
‘And yours are more noble?’ Angelo laughed dryly. ‘I wish you would explain how. I would be very interested to find out and if you can persuade me with your argument then I would advise you to drop the catering and go in for a career in law instead. There is always scope for a good barrister who can think creatively on his feet.’
‘I hate you, Angelo Falcone.’
‘No. You don’t. If you hated me, you would never have climbed into bed with me. Especially considering you have a boyfriend. I know you well enough to know that much.’